


Back Fence Gossip

by fabula_prima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Modern Girl in Thedas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Disability, Wish Fulfillment, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: Mabel O'Meara is having a rough time. Her life's always been a bit complicated, being in a wheelchair and all. And her introverted tendencies only help to keep her isolated. But now her parents' divorce has sent shockwaves through the family. She's 30, she's lonesome, and she's absolutely sick of sitting back while her world crumbles around her.So she does the one thing she's wanted to do for years; she adopts a dog. A dog that visits her dreams and makes her a delightful deal. A dog that's not quite a dog at all. And he'll send her to a world she'd only read about in books, filled with dangers and miracles and a bear of man who saves her life.And they'll incite gossip all across Thedas.(A rough homage to "The Steadfast Tin Soldier")





	1. Black Dog

This—fine reader—is the story of Mabel O’Meara who waited patiently, on her eleventh birthday, for an invitation to Hogwarts. Mabel O’Meara, who opened every old wardrobe and closet door she found, hoping to see a snowy forest in its depths. Mabel O’Meara, whose legs stopped working properly when she was five years old. Mabel O’Meara who decided at a very young age that she wasn’t wrong for this world—only that this world wasn’t the right one for her.

At 30 years old, Mabel had long stopped waiting for a fantastic adventure. She knew—very logically—that she could enjoy such fantastical things without longing to be part of them. And she _knew_ —very logically—that she was quite content with her life.

But she also knew that she was in need of someone to talk to. And that—the fundamental human desire to share a story—was how her owntale began.

* * *

 

“Now, Muffin is a little older, of course, but as long as you give her the insulin properly and snap before you approach her, she should be fine.”

Mabel scratched between the little terrier’s greying ears. It was a sweet pup, for all its difficulties, and her instinct to rescue the sad mutt fought with her pragmatism: this would not be the dog. “Snap at her?”

The shelter volunteer nodded solemnly. “She’s got cataracts, poor dear, so her vision’s not great, and it’s best not to startle her.”

Mabel turned to her sister whose polite smile had twisted into a grimace. _Alice never could manage a poker face._

“I think we’re looking for more of a working sort of dog. Less emotional support, more of…an open the door for you kind of thing.”

The volunteer’s response was edged with condescension. “Well, we’re a rescue facility, of course. If you’re feeling so particular, perhaps a program dedicated solely to training service animals would be more your speed.”

While Alice traded false courtesies with the volunteer, Mabel’s glittering eyes scanned the halls of the shelter in anticipation. Her sister was right: a pet would bring some much needed joy to her life. And if she could get it the proper training to be a service animal, maybe she could get that ridiculously high pet fee back from her landlord. But most of the dogs looked in need of their _own_ service animal, their pens labeled with various “medical attention” notes. Guilt bubbled up in her stomach. _Is it responsible of me to take on a needy animal? Can I give it what it needs?_ It was easy to spiral like this these days. After her family’s chaos in the previous months, Mabel found her self-certainty wavering. She needed to prove—to herself, more than anything—that she could take care of something. That she was capable of nurturing. That her parents’ dysfunction wasn’t what awaited her.

It was a lot to ask of a dog, perhaps, but she could use the company.

Her eyes landed on a snout that poked out between the bars of a pen at the end of the hallway. The pup must have been laying on the floor, but the low light left only the tip of its nose illuminated, so it was hard to tell. She started down the hall as slowly and quietly as she could manage. The clanky rumble of her wheelchair set animals on edge sometimes, and she didn’t want to start a scene.

“What about this one?”

“Which one dear?”

Now that she was closer, Mabel could see that it wasn’t just its snout that was nearly black—its whole wolfish figure was as dark as a clouded night sky. It transfixed her so completely that she forgot to respond.

The volunteer answered her own question. “Oh…this beast. I’m not sure you’d—”

“What kind of dog is it?”

“We’re not really sure. We had thought he was a German Shepherd, but he’s much too large.”

And he was. He stood to inspect them as they approached, and Alice let out a soft gasp. “Mabel, that’s a fucking wolf,” she whispered.

“He most certainly is _not_ a wolf,” the volunteer corrected. “Granted, I’m not convinced he’s a dog, either. He’s far too…reasonable.”

“Reasonable?”

“Very calm, well-mannered. It’s almost like he—well, for instance, how he ended up here! One of our directors arrived early one morning and he was sitting patiently outside the front door!”

As the woman spoke about him, Mabel watched his expression. She had seen expressive dogs before, but his stare was so focused that it seemed as if he understood the conversation. His eyes were green, almost unsettlingly so, and when she reached in to pet his head, he stayed perfectly still.

She interrupted the woman mid-sentence. “I’ll take him.”

“ _Mabel_ —”

“ _Ma’am_ —”

They spoke in tandem, but the volunteer yielded to Alice, assuming sisterly sense might do the trick.

“I know I said something a little more robust than Muffin over there, but seriously?”

“Are you kidding? He’s amazing! Look at his eyes, he’s a forest spirit in dog form. And he’s so well-behaved!”

“Look, I'm all for spontaneity, but a dog is enough of a responsibility without escorting an example of _megafauna_ into your one-bedroom apartment.”

Mabel shrugged her shoulders and scratched at the dog’s forehead more vigorously. “Meh, go big or go home. We’ll tell the landlord I ride him like a horse when my wheelchair breaks down.”

The volunteer’s confused stare flitted between the two of them until the sisters burst out laughing. “To be frank, I _should_ be most disturbed that you’re trying to house a dog in a small apartment. But more concerning to me is that I’m just not convinced you’d be able to care for him properly. What with your own...” she flitted her hands about vaguely and looked at Mabel pitifully. “…your _problems_.”

Alice cocked her head to the side, sucked in a deep breath, and cracked her knuckles.

Ten minutes of colorful cursing later, and the pair of girls left the shelter with a self-satisfied dog trotting along between them.

“Did you wear yourself out?” Mabel asked with a grin.

“No, holy shit no, it’s incredibly energizing, putting assholes in their place. I don’t know why you don’t do it more often.”

Mabel thought about it for a moment. “It gets old, eventually. Or maybe I just got used to it. The microaggressions, anyway. Big, honking injustices? I’ll square up against all of those. But the little things are too exhausting to waste my energy on.”

The dog swung his head back and forth between the women as they chatted, careful to not tangle his paws in the wheels of Mabel’s chair. Her left hand free, she patted his head.

“What am I gonna call you, huh? Nothing cheesy like Midnight or Jet.”

“The woman at the shelter said his name was Solace.”

The pup’s ears perked up and Mabel took it as a sign.

“Alright, then. I like that. Solace. Is that what you’ll offer me, new friend?”

 

Contented with his name, Solace nuzzled his nose into the palm of Mabel’s hand and huffed.

* * *

 

Later that evening, Solace terrified Mabel’s care attendant. Mabel employed the part-time nurse to help her with odd jobs around the house that her disability made too difficult. Laundry, vacuuming, taking out the garbage, for instance. Now, these were all tasks that Mabel had attempted herself, more than once. But they typically ended in catastrophe—trash all over the kitchen floor, tangling the vacuum cord in the wheels of her chair, and falling face-first into the frontloading washer. She conceded to reality many years ago: she needed assistance. So she hired someone. Many someones, as time went on, and these days it was Christie. At night, the attendant helped her out of her clothes and into bed, and in the morning, did the same routine reversed. It was quite natural to Mabel after twenty years, and hardly ever a hassle. But some days, it weighed heavily on her, and the notion of needing someone else left her feeling defeated.

Finally in bed and alone for the night, Mabel called to Solace. “Plenty of room up here, pup.”

She stretched and yawned and patted the bed repeatedly. But he sat still, situated primly in the doorway, and she could have sworn he had a quizzical look about him, though she wasn’t convinced dogs could look quizzical without tilting their head to the side.

“Suit yourself. Y’know, I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do. I figured there’d be crate training or something, but you’re like, the chillest dog I’ve ever seen.”

After a moment, Solace padded around to the opposite side of the bed and bounded up, keeping a foot of space between himself and his new owner. Apparently pleased by the lush comforter that puffed up around him, he let out a heavy breath. Mabel ran her fingers through the dense fur between his ears.

“I’m gonna do my best, okay? You’ll get fed and I’ll take you on walks—just tie your leash to my chair, I guess,” she added to herself. “Point is, I’ll look after you. Just be patient with me, yeah? I don’t feel good at much of anything these days.”

He pressed his head up and into her hand, and the soft reassurance of it drudged up misty tears. But she held them in check. “It’s a little rough, these days, but it’ll get better. It’s just that…” she hesitated, knowing she’d tried to avoid verbalizing this melodramatic fantasy. “Some nights I just wish I were somewhere else.”


	2. Constellarium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking some liberties with the exact definition of who/what Fen'Harel/Solas/Solace is, partly because this is meant to function like a kind of fairytale. I'm not aiming for perfect canon compliance, only reasonable, accurate characterization.

In the fifth grade, Mabel cut her hair to her chin for the first of many times in her life and set her sights on Adam Burke—undoubtedly the cutest boy in her class. He was quiet, played on the little league football team, and called their teacher “ma’am,” very respectfully. She liked that he was quiet; she liked to talk. She could do all the talking for the both of them. She liked his chocolate colored hair, so different from her own blonde locks. And she liked that he smiled crookedly. A book she once read said that a crooked smile was dashing, and she was pretty sure dashing was a good thing.

A week before Valentine’s Day, she asked him to the ice cream social, despite her friends’ insistence that she should let _him_ do the asking. Her father told her not to mind them, that the boy didn’t have to ask the girl. The day after she asked, he said yes, very respectfully, and on the day of the dance, he brought her a flower. The loveliest carnation she’d ever seen. They went to the gymnasium, arm-in-arm, and when they arrived, they each sought out their separate friends.

Mabel checked her first date off as successful, and figured she was ahead of the game—only the most popular fifth graders had already had a date. She saw Adam in class every day afterwards, under the assumption that he liked her just as much as she liked him. But one day, during recess, she crossed the playground where she found him huddled with his friends, telling them about his crush on Holly McConnell. Holly McConnell, who placed just ahead of her in the spelling bee. Holly McConnell who had the prettiest smile in the whole school. Holly McConnell, who she had longed to be friends with.

Years later, she learned that Adam’s mother had insisted he take Mabel to the dance. Said it would make the sweet, wheelchair-bound girl's day. She learned the acrid taste of pity that day, and lost part of her easy, childlike confidence. It never had returned. But she also learned how to save her dignity, when she approached the cluster of boys and announced, very respectfully, that Adam no longer interested her. That she was looking for someone much more mature. Perhaps a sixth grader.

She recounted this story to Solace in whispers as she dozed, his chin resting atop her shoulder as he sprawled over most of the bed’s empty space. She was proud of her ten-year-old self, in retrospect, even though the bruise remained. She was always kinder to her younger self than she was to present-day Mabel, and this was her last thought as sleep took her.

* * *

 

When she awoke, she found herself perched among the stars. She rested against the back of the great Lion, with the Crab to one side of her, and the Virgin to the other. Directly across from her, though perhaps directly below, the Cup-Bearer poured a steady stream of water, slinky and glistening like quicksilver. She had expected the stars to be made of crystal white pinpricks, but instead they were golden in an inky blue sky, constellations mapped out like an old nautical map. The moon was nowhere to be seen, but the cosmos glowed as if it hung overhead. And in the distance, she saw a dusty swath of light—maybe the Milky Way, all lavender fuzz as it bisected her horizon.

From a dark void just left of the center, a shape pulled closer to her. It, too, was made of gilt glitter, but as it approached, the light moved toward the edges of the figure until it was a shimmering outline of black, shaped like a lunging wolf. Mabel couldn’t recall a wolf in the zodiac. A centaur and a ram, yes. A scorpion and a bull. But no wolf. The light of the figure blinded her and she closed her eyes, but could still feel its cold heat approaching. When the heat abated, she opened her eyes to take stock of the wolf. But instead she saw the silhouette of a man before her, tall and thin and faceless.

“Da’len,” it whispered fondly. “I’ve found you.”

For all of the openness around them, the voice had no echo. In fact, it made no sound at all, just diffused itself right into her swimming head. That alone unnerved her. There was something menacing about him as well, but his affectionate tone softened her just enough to respond. She cleared the sleep from her throat and steadied her resolve. “Who are you?”

“Do you not recognize me? I am the spirit that watches your dreams.”

There was such destiny in the statement, but Mabel couldn’t wholly relax herself into the fantasy of it. Instead, her defenses rose. “And what the hell does that mean?”

The figure laughed, and the golden outline of him went silver and shivered. “You are anxious, I can feel it in you. I can always tell when you’re anxious. You pick at your fingernails, just like you’re doing now.”

Mabel looked down and stilled her fidgeting hands, bothered that he knew her habit. “You speak like you know me.”

“I do. Perhaps you don’t recognize me without the fur.”

And all at once, it was obvious. She had known it all along, of course. As soon as she locked eyes with Solace at the shelter, something otherworldly had begun and she could feel it, even if she had no words for it. She could feel it in the strange vulnerability of their bedtime conversations. She knew it as soon as the wolf appeared in the stars.

“Your kind called me Solace,” he continued. “A misunderstanding. My name is Fen’Harel. I have seen your dreams, da’len. I have heard your sorrows. And I’m here to set you free.”

“But I’m not so full of sorrow,” she refuted, almost believing herself.

“I have listened to you every night as you drift to sleep. There is a deep ache within you. You are frustrated by your body, the ways it prohibits you.”

_That wasn’t right_. Mabel loved her body. Appreciated it for what it could do and for all of its resilience. And it was just a body, after all. Her strength was her mind, and her mind was sharp as a knife’s edge. No, it wasn’t right.

Was it?

She did long to dance. _Really_ dance, with joyful, nimble feet. And sometimes she felt so full of energy that a swift run sounded like the only satisfying option. She wanted to sprint into the ocean, or into a lover’s arms.

_Oh_.

Her body held her back from that. How many loves might she have known if it weren’t for that broken body? Those who weren’t turned off by it and the complexity of her were turned off by her own self-deprecation. And who could really blame them?

“For so long, you’ve been afraid to permit this grief. Told yourself you had made peace. But I feel the conflict and the tension of it. I can lift the burden.”

Her curiosity outweighed her suspicion. “How?”

“I’ll take you to my world. And there, you will walk again.”

Her heart stopped, half offended, half fascinated. She had daydreamed about the sensation more times than she was willing to admit. She _refused_ to admit it, on principle. _There was nothing lacking about her, fuck what anyone else had dared to think._ But some days she thought it would be delightful to stand upright on her own, even just for a minute or two. Other days, the thought of having the ability only to lose it again broke her heart. Surely this temptation would do just that.

“What’s the catch?”

“There will be more to explain, but for now, understand this: you are a child of light. By day, you will live as you please. But when the sun sets each evening, your strength will fade.”

She ran through the list of things that night on two legs had to offer and reasoned it wasn’t a dealbreaking loss. But that singular moment of thought drew a thousand other questions to the surface. Would she collapse like a rag doll the instance that sun dipped below the horizon? What would she do if she were stranded out in the cold right around dusk? Fall to the ground and freeze overnight? The logistics overwhelmed her. How could he promise such a thing. “Are you some sort of god, then? To grant me such a wish?”

Fen’Harel had no face, but he sounded like he was smiling. His voice leaked into her like honey. “In a manner of speaking. But my power is limited, thus the stipulation.”

She would have known of this god, if he were part of the history she knew; she had more-than-dabbled in mythologies and religions, even if only academically. “Your world is different from mine, then?”

“Separate, yes. Thought to be only a myth, a legend. But the two worlds were bound eons ago. It will be strange, but not altogether unfamiliar.”

A fantastical world…was it one that she had read about? Middle Earth, perhaps, where she could settle into the Shire or venture to the halls of Rivendell. Or maybe Narnia, with all manner of talking creatures and marvelous landscapes. Or was it somewhere altogether unknown? “This is a dream,” she whispered, more to remind herself than to dispute him.

“It is. But that does not make it any less real.”

His voice became so assertive that her suspicions resurfaced with their remaining energy. She wrung her hands together and cleared her throat once more. “What do you get out of this deal?”

“Consider it reciprocity, for your rescuing Solace.”

_Solace_. Such a fine dog, so intensely reassuring. How long had he been part of her life now? A week? A month? Time felt slippery and fatigue ran its fingers through her hair. “Don’t you mean rescuing _you_?”

“Solace and I are not one-in-the-same. But I suppose that’s accurate enough.”

A sharp worry tore through the haze of her exhaustion. “What will happen to him?” To her dear companion, soft and sturdy.

The figure surged forward, expanding beyond her field of vision. The stars dropped, one by one, tinkling as they landed, and then rose again in new arrangement. She thought she felt a palm against her forehead and then her ears began to ring. But through the shrill pierce, the steady voice of Fen’Harel soothed her. “Hush, da’len. You will wake soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an infinite number of ways that a person deals/interacts with their disability—this story is neither an endorsement nor an indictment of any particular way of experiencing a disability. Some people are very comfortable with their disabled body, others experience a great deal of frustration. And for some, the feelings vary from day-to-day (I’m pointing two big thumbs at myself). Disabled people are also capable of ableism, sometimes to our own detriment—many of us will grapple with this all our lives. The bottom line is that it’s very complicated. Some days, I’d love a cure. Other days, I say a big “fuck you” to anyone that suggests I need fixing. Most of the time, these feelings coexist. Mabel’s 30 and still parsing things out. But she’ll be damned if she misses out on an adventure.


	3. A Rift on the Farm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features another OC of mine, Inquisitor Bronn Cadash.

Inquisitor Cadash, bless the brute, was gonna be the death of Blackwall.

That was saying an awful lot, considering Blackwall’s line of work. _And_ the number of near-death experiences he had under his belt. But the Inquisitor had a penchant—a fondness, really—for terribly risky endeavors.

Like this fucking rift in this fucking ravine that was proving to be beyond their capacity. After the first wave, they were down to one health potion each. They’d downed two more demons since then, but there was no telling how many more might crop up.

“Just spot me so I can climb, yeah?”

Blackwall didn’t even have time to persuade him otherwise before Bronn started scaling the stones behind him.

“Thought the point of being a rogue was fighting from afar.” Blackwall raised his shield just in time to block an ice spike from a despair demon, but it was hardly a victory; it felt like the impact dislocated his shoulder.

“I’m a short fucker, Blackwall. Easier to reach the rift from up top,” Bronn reasoned. The climbing must have been going well, his voice was much softer now.

Blackwall yelled back, mostly to distract himself from the sensation of nerves knocked amiss down his left arm. “And when you get injured, how’s Solas gonna get to you?”

The terror demon that the mage had been battling vanished with a crack and Blackwall felt the ground tremble. Sera had the remaining despair demon down to its final stumbles, and Bronn was already trying to leash onto the rift. The Warden could afford to focus his attention elsewhere. “Fucking terror demons,” he mumbled as he launched into as fast a sprint as his heavy armor would allow.

And then, just as he had feared, the beast resurfaced without warning, half a foot in front of Solas. He grabbed the elf by the arm and pulled him back, stepping in to face the demon. He lifted his sword to strike a fatal blow, but before he made contact, it shrieked out—one of Bronn’s daggers wedged directly in its chest. Blackwall swiped at it all the same, just to make sure it fell away from him and the mage who was patting his back in gratitude. He heard the twinging crackle of rift magic above his head as Bronn pulled the tear closed, and he let himself take a breath. Without warning, the Inquisitor jumped to the ground in an agile tumble.

“Show off.” Blackwall couldn’t resist chiding Bronn, even if he _was_ the Inquisitor. In truth, it was easy to forget he was the Inquisitor. They were fast friends, with similarly dingy pasts, and it forged resilient bond between them. But only Blackwall knew that. No one in the Inquisition needed to know his whole story—at least not yet. He’d pledged his sword, his shield, and his life to the Inquisitor’s protection. It wasn’t enough to atone for the sins that haunted him, but it was a reasonably noble distraction.

“Ay, if it weren’t for me _showing off_ ,” Bronn began, spinning his dagger around his knuckle as he picked it up from the puddle of demon at his feet, “you’da had your head snatched off.”

“Solas and I were doing just fine on our own, I’ll have you know. Weren’t we?” Blackwall added, nodding toward the mage who was readying himself for the task of healing the ruffians.

“Once again, I refuse to engage in this pissing match the two of you are determined to have.” His cold tone was forced—and farce, at that. “Not a dislocation,” he added, waving a healing hand over Blackwall’s shoulder.

Sera, on the contrary, hobbled over, holding a gash beneath her armpit. “I’d like to live, thanks!”

Blackwall waved Solas off to tend to the archer.

“Took an ice spike to the tit with that last one,” she groaned.

“Fix her up Solas, else Dagna might have your head.”

Solas nodded, helping Sera to sit on a nearby boulder. “Creators forbid.”

Quick as it had been, the mage’s healing magic left Blackwall feeling like a relatively new man—magic couldn’t do much about the decades of physical labor, after all, but at least his shoulder felt usable. Bronn seemed to be in prime shape as well, stooped at the edge of the rushing water, cleaning his blade. Blackwall approached, realizing his own sword could use a rinse. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but he could oil it back at camp later.

Bronn heaved a hefty sigh and squinted up at the sky where the rift had just been. “Glad to have that one out of the way. Tried it the first time we visited Master Dennet and it was a disaster.”

It hadn’t been easy this go around, but they had managed. “You’ve come a long way, Inquisitor.” He worried it sounded condescending, but Bronn nodded solemnly, so he let it go.

“That means a lot, you know? Surface dwarves have a…well, a funny outlook on the Blight and all. Not to say other dwarves don’t respect you lot,” he said, gesturing towards the griffon crest on Blackwall’s breastplate. “I’ve always admired the Wardens, is what I mean. I know I’m ace with an assassination, but sometimes I’m less confident about the green hand shite.” Bronn chewed at his lip and watched the reflection of his mark against his dagger. “Reassurance from a Warden’s nice.”

He clapped the dwarf on the back. He was a good lad, even if he was reckless. And he was handling the responsibility of Inquisitor well enough, given the public’s distaste of his background as a Carta agent. But Blackwall couldn’t stomach the duty of mentorship. He wasn’t that much older than Bronn, and Maker knew he was hardly a virtuous role model. The Inquisitor needed a much better advisor—it was good he had the likes of Cullen back at Skyhold. His thoughts often spiraled this way after a successful fight. Any time pride threatened to surface, he chastised himself. And any time Bronn looked at him in admiration, it took every ounce of his willpower to keep the truth to himself. _A Maker damned fraud_.

Before he could dwell on the thought, he was startled out of his reverie by Solas splashing across the ravine.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, his stare a thousand yards off into the distance.

The Inquisitor stood from his squatted position at the water’s edge and turned his ear in the same direction.

Blackwall could only hear the water lapping against the smooth river stones. He was ready to mock Solas for a worrywart when he heard it: a bark.

“Wolves in these parts?” Sera questioned, newly mended and approaching the increasingly alert group.

“That’s not a wolf.” Solas corrected. “And whatever it is, it’s in danger.”

He was right. Blackwall could hear the growing desperation in its barks, now interrupted by the occasional whine.

The party ventured toward the noise, weapons drawn, and Bronn instructed Sera to climb a nearby hill for a better look through the trees.

She steadied herself and quickly groaned. “Uh oh boys. Got us a bear.”

“And the barking?” Bronn asked.

“Can’t tell. Maybe a lost hound? Beardy, Elfy, you two get in closer, yeah?” She situated her quiver of arrows, prepared to distract the beast at their signal.

Blackwall stepped in front of Solas out of instinct. If the Inquisitor was safe, the healer was the next priority. They followed a rough foot path toward a wooded area until they could see the bear for themselves. It wasn’t terribly large compared to others in the area. And for all its fear, the dog’s barking had managed to threaten the beast. But underneath the barking, Blackwall heard another sound. Soft and muffled and high pitched.

_“Fucking bear, holy shit, death by bear is not worth this.”_

A woman. A terrified, half clothed woman with a massive black hound doing its damnedest to protect her. How she got herself cornered by a bear was a question for later. Now, he needed to make sure she got out of that corner safely.

“Solas,” he began. His voice caught the attention of the distressed damsel and she locked eyes with him. _Panicked, stunning hazel eyes._

But Solas was already on it, hands fidgeting with magic as he readied to cast a barrier spell. Blackwall raised his weapon, looked up at Sera and over at Bronn, who had approached the bear at its opposite side, and dropped his sword arm. In an instant, Sera launched one arrow and nocked a second, while Solas cast a barrier in front of the woman and her guardian. The bear roared and turned around, prepared to attack whatever had shot him.

“To me!” Blackwall shouted, waving the woman toward him. But she froze, stared at her folded legs, and grimaced.

“Uh, just a second,” she called back, voice shaky with terror.

“Maker’s balls woman, what are waiting for?” He’d never seen anything quite so ludicrous as this woman in mortal danger taking her sweet time escaping.

Finally, she rose onto her knees and clasped the jet-black fur of her companion, pulling herself up. She watched her feet as if confused, her steps cautious. Then a pained smile stretched across her face, snagging on a delightful dimple. She looked back up at Blackwall with a questioning expression and his breath caught. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to dwell on the loveliness of her bewildered, determined face, but instead he waved her on as he took stock of the fight.

To his delight, Sera had managed to land a couple of crucial arrows near the bear’s neck and Bronn was expertly wearing it out. Now that the beast was completely unaware of the strange woman and her strange hound, Solas had shifted the barrier to the Inquisitor. But just as he steeled himself for jumping in to help finish the fight, the woman collided into him. Her tentative steps had turned into a full-on sprint that was halted by the bulk armor of his chest. He dropped his shield just in time to catch her from falling. His hand on the small of her back, he drew her to him and swallowed a lump that seemed to have lodged in his throat.

“My lady,” he said, dumbfounded, incapable of stringing together anything more complicated.

She opened her eyes, which had been screwed shut in a wince, and scanned his face. After what felt like an eternity of scrutiny, she smiled sheepishly. “Hello.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I won't have to submit you all to much more in the way of action scenes. I'm AWFUL at writing action scenes.


	4. Not Enough Breeches

“Why does he call me ‘da’len?’” It was her final thought before she fell back to sleep.

But no, it wasn’t falling, was it? She was rising with all of the new stars, and the stars were turning into open bits of sky, threading through the tops of tall pines. She was in a new dream now, no longer floating in the cosmos but cradled in a sparse forest. Another whispered noise flooded her senses, but this time it was a dog’s whine—not a god’s voice.

_A god_. Yes, she had met a god and made a deal with him. Such an odd dream, floating in the stars. She preferred the comfort of the woods and the sharp scent of firs around her, earthy and familiar. And yet she wasn’t terribly comfortable, she realized. Was that a pine cone under her ass? She sat up onto her elbows and turned to the side, indeed finding a pine cone dug into her bare thigh.

Bare thigh? Her pants. She wasn’t wearing any pants. Not entirely unlike her dreams, especially her stress dreams. She’d dreamt of being naked in front of a classroom or suddenly realizing she wasn’t wearing a top before. But no pants in the middle of the woods? And the pine cone hurt. She ran her fingers along the back of her thighs and found deep little imprints. The whining dog got louder. Was Solace alright? If she could hear him whining so clearly, she must have been right on the cusp of waking. Telling herself to open her eyes would surely speed the process.

“Alright Mabel, wake up.” Oh, but that sounded like her real voice. Not the watery, sleep version of her dream voice, but her crackly, high pitched morning voice. And when she tried to open her eyes, she realized they had been open the entire time. She dug her fingers into the earth beneath her and it gave way gently, caking dirt beneath her fingernails.

Did that mean…

She flexed her legs, one at a time—something she used to do at night as a child, when her disease had started its slow development and she felt like testing its progress. She watched as the long thick muscle down the front of her bare thigh rose and tensed.

“That’s new,” she whispered to herself. She pulled one of her freckled knees up to her chin and then straightened it back out, watching in shock as it bent and laid flush against the ground.

She’d always been able to move her legs a bit, but she couldn’t manage anything that required real strength. And it had been decades since her leg had straightened all the way out. Had it always felt like this? She couldn’t remember.

But she was starting to remember that deal…its stipulations…and her own reluctance to accept it. And if memory served her correctly, she _hadn’t_ accepted it in official terms. Perhaps he had known her heart? Known something about her that she wasn’t even aware of? Perhaps he made the decision for her? And who _was_ he? And why was Solace whining so loudly?

She looked around, bleary-eyed and bewildered and then—

Stomach dropping to her heels, heart launched into her throat and sheer, primitive panic at the sight of a fucking bear _was that a **fucking** bear_, a full-sized wildgoddamnbear and she was goingtodie, for fuck’s sake, she couldn’t move, was it after sunset, had the single catch of this ludicrous dream deal with fuck-all knows what god finally kicked in so that she was paralyzed while facing a fucking bear and SOLACE, she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t watch a bear kill and eat her dog, her wonderful caring dog it would break everything in her, and the vomit rose, she was going to be sick, all the fear demanded an exit at the sight of this _fucking bear holy shit death by bear is not worth this_ and Solace barking, barking, trembling and whining poor Solace—

“Solas!”

_Help_.

A voice. A deep voice, rough around the edges, that sounded like it belonged to someone at least potentially capable of handling a bear. She dared to look away from the beast in front of her and glanced over to see the man that had called out.

_Oh_.

Was he a god as well? Ares, maybe, or Hector reincarnated. A warrior in a glinting breastplate, with a grizzled beard and swarthy eyes that met hers in shock. A new sort of paralysis overwhelmed her as he maintained eye contact and raised his sword into the air. Full of resolution.

When he lowered the weapon, time reengaged and a map of symbols burned up from the ground beneath her. She heard a faint humming all around and into her head and it felt like the uncomfortable moment on an airplane when they pressurize the cabin. A graceful man with a staff focused his attention on her and she thought perhaps she knew his face. Arrows flashed about in her periphery and she knew then, yes, she was being saved. The bear would be dispatched, or at least distracted long enough for her to run to safety.

Run.  _Right_. She ought to run. She stared down at her folded legs as if there were some command phrase she was supposed to use to get them to work.

“To me!” The armored hero opened his arms to her, waved his shield and sword in encouragement.

Her eyes stayed locked on her legs, hoping that his instruction would somehow start them up. “Uh, just a second,” she called out. _Fucking stupid, just a second, there’s a goddamn bear_. Okay, standing up. That was the first step. Well, the pre-step. The first _step_ was the first step and steps required feet on the ground, legs bearing weight.

“Maker’s balls woman, what are you waiting for?”

He was a bit growly, too, she noticed. ‘Maker’s balls’ was a strange phrase and her little linguist heart leapt at the realization that she was somewhere new. New languages, new dialects, all sorts of newness. But later. Linguistics later, bear and gallant man first. The last time she tried to stand, the momentum of hoisting herself up had been the problem—she always needed a hand as a child. Solace was nearby and would have to do. She reached out a shaky hand and gripped the dog’s thick fur as she pulled herself up.

But it was easy. The easiest thing she’d ever done. There her feet were, planted on the ground, base to a pair of perfectly competent—albeit naked—legs. She could have wept, were it not for the acute awareness of the fucking bear, of course. It was a momentous occasion, she wanted to celebrate. So she looked back at her hero, patiently waving her towards him, and smiled. He didn’t know the gravity of it all, it was nothing to him. But he was the only person there, and for that moment, he was her comrade. His expression shifted briefly before he started looking around at the scene before them. She saw now that there were two others in the fight—an archer, nimble as could be, and a rather short, brazen man taunting the bear with a pair of knives. She had a clear path to the warrior. She took her first step slowly, in case a lack of practice had left her weak. But everything seemed to be in working order. She took her second and third steps more confidently, but still the spell held. She took a deep breath, knowing she needed to speed up the pace, hoping her body would simply remember how to do what she was about to attempt.

And then she ran.

It wasn’t a long distance, only a few seconds’ run. But the firmness of the earth beneath her bare feet felt delicious. Hard, uncompromising, sturdy. She hoped that, as she got closer to her hero, he’d take her hand and they’d keep running, off to somewhere safe. Perhaps they would run for hours, out in a vast open field, with Solace at her side, until her heart raced and sweat beaded along her brow. How could anyone tire of this such a feeling?

But he didn’t take her hand. His attention was elsewhere. And she hadn’t planned on stopping. So she ran right into him. Hard, uncompromising, sturdy. A bit painful, actually, given the breastplate and all. She lost her balance and closed her eyes, but before she could hit the ground, a strong, thick arm braced behind her and the falling stopped.

“My lady.”

The action froze again, like a movie paused. The rumble of his voice sent a shiver all the way to her toes and her legs felt weak once more. But they held strong with his support, and she opened her eyes. He seemed massive at this angle, looking down at her, leaning over her. But not menacing. His face was all sharp lines—severe cheekbones, heavy brows, the clean edge of his facial hair—but his expression was as soft as the pink lips that his beard couldn’t quite hide.

“Hello.” It came out a little breathier than she was strictly comfortable with, given the situation and the placement of his hand and her total lack of pants.

“Are you alright?” He was less rumbly now, as he eased her back into a standing position, but still as otherworldly to her as a character straight out of _Game of Thrones_. His eyes were grey--really and truly grey. And his hand nearly spanned the whole width of her back.

“Just great.” And she _was_ , now that the bear had been slain. She was on her own two feet with her hands gripped around the leather-clad forearms of a man who was quite literally tall, dark, and handsome. “Thank you, for—”

Before she could fumble over exactly what to call his services, he interjected. “It’s no trouble at all, my lady.” He cleared his throat and broke contact with her to pick up his shield. She wasn’t sure if the unsteadiness of her legs was owed to the absence or presence of him. “What were you—that is to say, how did you find yourself in such a…predicament?” His tone was light, but concerned as he watched her try to stretch her oversized faded grey t-shirt past her knees.

“I uh…I got lost, I suppose.” She slumped her shoulders, hoping the slackened cotton would cover her legs a bit more. “Honestly, I don’t know how I ended up here.”

The hero’s companions approached the spot where they were talking and gawking at one another, and Mabel’s cheeks flushed. _Wonderful, more people to try explaining this to_. First came the tattooed brash knife man, who resembled what she could only describe as a dwarf. Then the tall, slender wizard type, without a hair on his head, who made her spine shiver despite his warm smile. And finally the extraordinary archer with the shaggy blonde hair and lissome feet—the first to speak.

“Oi, where are your breeches, then?”

Another question she had no good answer for. “I must have, uh…misplaced them?”

The archer snorted as she laughed. “I know that game. Still, not smart in bear country.”

Mabel didn’t know that game. Mabel didn’t know this was bear country. Mabel didn’t know how to possibly explain her presence or circumstances without sounding like an absolute lunatic. She didn’t even know if these people were friend or foe.

The dwarf approached, wiping his bloodied hands on his pants. “Are you ally to the Inquisition?” Gruffer than her hero’s voice, more adamant.

“The Inquisition?” _Like the Catholics?_

He scrunched his eyebrows and pulled his head back in confusion. “I thought everyone in these parts knew about the Inquisition by now.”

_Wrong fucking answer, then._ “I’m not from these parts.”

The archer jumped in again, crossing her arms. “I should say not, listen to that accent. Posh Free Marcher, maybe? Sounds like Harding, don’t she?”

The wizard stepped forward and rested his hand on her shoulder. “We have met, I believe. Some years ago, passing through Starkhaven? It’s Mabel, yes?”

Mabel didn’t know Starkhaven, but she knew that voice, and her blood ran icy.

“I recognized your hound,” he added. “Such a similar name to mine, if I recall correctly.”

“Your dog’s named Solas?” the blonde questioned.

Mabel reached for the hound who had sidled up next her leg. “Solace, actually.”

“A fine name for a dog.” _Her hero_. Not questioning, not suspicious, only kind and courteous and complimenting her dog. An excellent way to her heart.

Solas, which was apparently the wizard-man’s name, stood poised. “Mabel, perhaps you would like to travel back to Skyhold with us, now that our business here in the Hinterlands is finished. If it’s alright with Inquisitor Cadash.”

“Yes, of course. Can’t have you roaming around Ferelden without any knickers.” Inquisitor Cadash. Solas. The other two remained nameless. The one she liked most was still a stranger to her. But she looked at him for confirmation. _If I’m to go off into the unknown, please tell me you’ll be there._ He looked hopeful amidst all that dark hair and armor. And she couldn't very well try to make it on her own in a completely foreign land if she was to collapse at nightfall. It was decided.

“Thank you,” she muttered. “I’d be grateful.”

But it was Solas’ hand that rested on her shoulder as the party set off. He didn’t seem malicious. He had been nothing but kind. But she very much wanted him to remove his hand. “Come, da’len. We have much to talk about.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been hoping to maintain a once-a-week update schedule, but some awful, horrible, no good, very bad things happened in my personal life and knocked me an extra week off track. But now we're back! The pace may get wonky again as my semester finishes up, but if you're jonesing for more, feel free to come ask questions on Tumblr :D

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this story in honor of my fifteen-year-old self who very much needed something like this to exist.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, and questions are all very welcome. You can also find me on Tumblr as puddle--wonderful, where I'd love to have a chat :)


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